


making new clichés

by californiasjewel



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, M/M, Popstar Harry Styles, Prince Louis Tomlinson, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:22:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22539292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/californiasjewel/pseuds/californiasjewel
Summary: Where Louis is the Crown Prince who never wanted to be.And Harry is the big-time pop star who never anticipated any of it.They meet drunkenly-- a telling start to things-- but the romance is only the beginning.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 33





	1. The Romance

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoy this piece of my heart and soul.
> 
> spotify playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/28UaWupQ92JJQOdf1uS6Xr?si=Jt7u76XtQHu4wY6TfdL-6g), if you happen to be into this sorta thing.
> 
> enjoy <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prologue

Despite his usual opinions on the matter, Louis can confidently say right now that he hates LA.

It’s a nice change from London, though it’s just as humid, at least five degrees hotter, and with half as much entertainment for him; most of all, he fucking hates that Zayn and Liam aren’t here.

Growing up, Louis and Liam were best mates; both being Royals and born close enough, they were obviously expected to become friends, but, as a kid, Louis never would have expected such a genuine friendship with the closest Duke to his age.

But, as all good things come to an end, their co-dependant, somewhat destructive routines came to a close when Liam fucked off to Los Angeles with his model boyfriend and a shiny engagement ring.

And now he’s not even _in_ LA for Louis to bug when he’s finally here himself.

Stupid fucking engagement trips-- what’s even the point? Their honeymoon is, like, eight months away anyway-- do they really need _another_ two weeks on a tropical island? _Just_ to make Louis suffer like this? Why is everyone except Louis in a happy, successful relationship as of late?

to: Liam

_Fuck you mate, first you leave me alone in London now LA too_

to: Zayn  
_I hate both of u_

Deciding those angsty texts are enough for the time being, Louis shuts off his phone and chucks it onto the desk. He thinks he’ll wank a bit to tire himself out for a much-needed nap.

*

On his second day in LA, Louis day drinks. Alone.

On his third day, he decides he’s above that. Okay, he spends the _first half_ of his day drinking white wine and watching Property Brothers, but he’s braving the public again by eight p.m.-- for more than just a cigarette run, too-- so he counts it as a personal victory.

At Zayn’s recommendation, he goes to Stage IV, a bar on the northern outskirts of the city with a high enough entrance fee for Louis to count on respectless paps to be a non-worry; while cameras aren’t _explicitly_ banned, it seems like the kind of place no one goes to be seen at, anyway.

He gets ID’ed at the door, and the bouncer hardly flinches; he likes it here already. Zayn just may be good for something.

The dance floor seems _alive_ \-- something he for some reason didn’t anticipate for this kind of place-- but it’s otherwise not awfully busy. The bar, which he eyes in particular, starts to get barren when it edges toward the darker, space-grey wall in the corner. Maybe five or six seats from the end, a couple sits-- well, _a “couple”_ , consisting of a grossly old, salt-and-pepper-haired man with a redhead who hardly looks legal. Louis shakes his head when he sees his wrinkly hand on her thigh right where her short, black dress ends.

He takes the second to last seat to the wall-- he wants to be out of the way but doesn’t go too far because, well, he’s not a fucking creep. The bartender walks up and Louis puts on his polite voice to order two shots of vodka, you know, to get a good start.

As the bartender pushes too filled shot glasses towards Louis, he feels a presence sit down to his left, but he just pinches his nose and throws back the alcohol, one after the other. He regretfully doesn’t have a chaser, so gathers saliva in his mouth, swishing it and re-swallowing as quickly as possible, as if that will do anything to fix it.

The person next to him-- a man-- laughs, and, cringing, Louis looks over to see.

He’s young-- about Louis’ age, give or take a couple of years. He looks vaguely familiar, but Louis can’t place it, so instead decides to ignore it.

“Man,” the bloke says, Cheshire accent shining through, “you Royalty don’t mess around.”

Louis cringes further.

Okay, it’s not like he goes out _not expecting_ to get recognised, but he can blow under the radar surprisingly well for Royalty. As difficult as it was, his mum didn’t ever like her kids’ faces on the telly, limiting such appearances to four or so times a year, give or take. Most of the people that _recognise_ Louis, usually, are from events he attended often as a child-- dinners, charity balls, the works-- but usually he only sees people he needs to keep up an appearance with in places one goes to keep up an appearance. He feels safe in random bars like Stage IV-- classy enough to hide from ill-mannered journalists while not classy enough to run into Nobles he’s well-acquainted with from more _noble_ times of his.

But, still. He’s a Royal. A Royal who’s been recognised. He has _some_ respect-- this is far from the version from himself he tries to present.

He’s had more than a handful of inappropriate run-ins with the Daily Mail, the Sun, but still. He’s a _respectable_ Royal.

“I-- I don’t usually do this,” Louis stammers, flustered. He tries to do his overconfident charm thing. (He has a feeling it might not be working).

“Shit, mate. Takes practice to get that good.”

Louis feels blood rush into his cheeks-- maybe all the liquor’s finally hitting him.

“I’m respectable.”

The man has a cheeky smile, dimple cratering his cheek. “And I don’t doubt that, Your Highness.”

“Maybe stop with the formalities,” Louis suggests, more passive-aggressive than intended in his mind. “I don’t think any of us are here to look good.”

The man concedes.

“You’re right, you’re right. ‘S just an opportunity, y’know. Don’t often get to make Royalty blush.”

“So, which one are you, then?” He looks confused, so Louis elaborates. “C-list celebrity? Or trust-fund baby? Maybe even sugar daddy, but you seem quite young.”

He laughs, deep and heavy. 

“I guess C-lister, of those three. Maybe I need to get my ego in check, but I think I’m a _little_ above that.”

“I dunno, mate. I don’t recognize you.”

The man reaches his hand out for a handshake-- cheesy.  
“Harry Styles.”

“And what did I say about formalities?”

“Sorry,” Harry says, and retracts his hand.

\ Louis recognises the name-- shit, he _really_ recognises the name; his younger sisters like to plaster his face on every surface they can reach-- but something’s off.

“If you’re Harry Styles, why don’t I recognise you?” 

Harry shrugs. “I cut my hair not all that long ago if that helps.”

Makes more sense; Louis pictures it for a moment, then nods.

Wordlessly, the bartender pushes a flaming pink cocktail towards Harry, who mumbles ‘thanks’.

“Huh; didn’t really take you as the fruity-drinks type.”

“Really? What type did you take me for, then?” Harry asks, letting a semi-vodka-soaked cherry slip into the corner of his opened lips.

“I dunno-- beer, maybe. Somethin’ more masculine.”

Louis can feel the alcohol hitting, just slightly. He’s not drunk but notices the slightest of changes. But, still, he hails the bartender to order a vodka and coke-- he’s at a bar, may as well get pissed.

“Really? Mate, have you seen me?”

 _No, not really._ So, he looks.

And, yeah, there’s a point to be made in Harry’s appearance.

He dwells a little too long on his _hands_ , ballerina pink and soft, powder blue varnished nails with an abundance of chunky, golden rings. Rings. Louis likes that.

In addition to that is the open-chested shirt, looks silky and expensive, with a pattern of royal blue doves over a navy blue backdrop. The open chest draws more attention to a chunky, golden chain, seemingly matched with the rings. Maybe Louis is a bit slow. He blames his slight tipsiness.

“I just know your music,” Louis excuses cheekily, over-dramatic hand gestures and all. Harry seems to be flustered and entertained, definitely more so of the latter.

“So you’re a fan, huh?”

Louis shakes his head. “Me sisters are. Always blastin’ that one song-- ‘bout the baby or somethin’.”

“Oh.”

“Definitely come off a bit different there.”

“Different?”

“Man’s man. Proper bloke. Not fruity-drinks, fancy-dress, cherry-suckin’ type.”

He lets the cherry fall from the corner of his lips, little _pop_ sound coming with it. Louis’ point seems efficiently made.

“Well,” Harry puts the cherry down, into the slightly emptied glass and sets it on the bar, “maybe you’ll have to listen to some of my _other_ songs then. Get to know me a bit more.”

“Or,” Louis starts, dramatic as ever, “you _could_ just tell me yourself.”

*

from: Zayn

_how’d it work out!!_

from: Zayn

_loueh!! updates!! xx_

It’s two. While Louis has been up for at least an hour and a half, he’s only just willed himself out of bed and decided to brave the day. Obviously, his first priority is telling Zayn about his new pop star best friend-- his sisters can wait on him.

to: Zayn

_It was good !! hungover as SHIT !! but also made a new best friend !!_

from: Zayn

_i leave the city for four days and ur replacing me? :/_

to: Zayn

_It’s what you get for stealing my Liam ;) :(_

His phone screen is too bright. Everything’s too bright. There are two possibilities right now-- dark enough to drive him mad or _too bright_.

Despite this, he looks through other texts. Lottie asks him where he’d like to join her for dinner that night (good to know she still knows he exists after dragging him to another country with her) and his mum asking how LA was and giving him a rundown of the _oh-so-important_ meetings he missed. He tells her some bullshit about it having a nice time and ignores all the work stuff; if he’s stuck in America, he’s not gonna focus on shit happening in London.

Then, at the bottom of the string of ones from the morning, was an odd one out.

An LA area code, unsaved number, and just a period. The message was blue, from an iPhone, so he thinks hard about what happened.

After a think, he remembers. Harry Styles, from the bar. (Yeah, he’s remembered him all morning and may be thinking about him _slightly_ too fondly but the whole drunken ‘gimme your phone, I’ma put me number in’ thing was lost with the drunkenness).

He already has the contact in before he’s sending a text.

to: Harry

_Harry? ;)_

Louis hardly prepares a bowl of sugary, American cereal when he gets a text back.

from: Harry

_Lou..?_

to: Harry

_:)_

Louis smiles and puts his phone down, satisfied with the interaction. He decides to commit the rest of the day to watching reality TV and shoving his head into a pillow.

*

Louis meets Lottie for dinner that night.

It goes… well.

“So, how’s LA treatin’ you’?” She asks at a low in conversation.

Louis shrugs, struggling to remember the _polite_ for ‘not that good’.

“Pretty cool; you’ll never believe who I met at a bar last night.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, questioning as she bites a scoop of rigatoni from her plate. “Who?”

“Harry Styles.”

She seems taken aback, more than Louis anticipates-- she stops chewing for a minute.

“ _Harry Styles?_ ” 

Louis nods. “Got his number in me phone and everything.”

“You’re joking.”

“Not at all, love.”

She drops-- okay, sets down gently-- her fork and leans closer over the table. “No fucking way-- Fiz would _freak_.”

Louis nods.

“And the twins. Fucking crazy, eh?”

“Let me _see_ , Lou!”

“Okay, okay,” he laughs, opening his phone to recent iMessages and searches the thread. It’s short, four messages back and forth, but it’s _enough_. “Not much over text but we talked for, like, three hours.”

“Damn, okay, this _really is_ dry,” she says as she hands his phone back. Louis laughs.

“I know, sorry to disappoint.”

Lottie smiles for a moment, seeming to think of a response, before deciding on one.

“So, does this new _best friend_ mean you can deal with LA better for a few days?”

Louis sighs, jokingly rolling his eyes with added drama.  
“I _guess_ , Lots.”

*

On Louis’ sixth night in LA is Lottie’s charity ball.

While he’s sort of been counting down the days, he’s almost sad to see it come; _this_ is why he’s here. _This_ is what he’s been waiting for when he’s been fucking around all day and _this_ happening means his flight leaves tomorrow.

Of course, Harry Styles ruins everything, as it goes.

While the two have only _seen each other_ the night at the bar, they’ve been texting, like, way too much. Louis always gets on his younger sisters’ asses for being on their phones a lot, but he might understand it slightly.

After dinner with Lottie, Louis decided to tell Harry more of his sisters’ fangirling antics and since then it’s been nonstop.

Louis loves hearing Harry talk-- it’s mostly about work, but Louis _loves_ hearing about Harry’s job, the writing, the recording, the _life_. He’s admittedly jealous, and Harry Styles is only fueling his unreachable daydreams of being a proper rockstar.

There’s one dream that most everyone shares: to be famous. But Louis is somewhat regretful (despite his non-choice in the matter) of his _brand_ of famous-- being a Prince sounds fun and all, but there’s a sad amount of professionalism and disappointing lack of sex, drugs, and rock and roll.

“Psst,” Fizzy says, nudging Louis in the arm. “Get off your phone.”

Louis rolls his eyes; _sixteen-year-olds…_

“Yeah,” Daisy adds, bumping his other arm. “Who’s so important anyway?” The quirk in her voice makes her intent obvious, the word _girlfriend_ looming unsaid.

For some years, Louis dated a girl named Eleanor, followed by a couple of shorter things that didn’t stick around for long. Since then, his younger sisters have been itching for him to find a new girlfriend-- the future _Queen_. So, obviously, they haven’t caught onto the whole ‘sexuality crisis’ thing yet.

“Harry Styles,” Louis answers back impatiently. The girls just giggle.

Good.

“Really, Lou,” Phoebe says. “You’re getting old.”  
He scoffs, “I’m twenty-three!”  
“Old,” Daisy says, making Louis roll his eyes.

Fizzy interjects-- “You need a Queen, Lou! Time’s running out!”

“Okay, I probably won’t be King for, like, forty more years,” he says, wincing. He can hardly hear shit over everyone talking over him.

“That’s not necessarily true,” one of the twins-- Phoebe, he thinks-- says.

Louis shakes his head as Fizzy clanks arms with him and adds, “Well, even if so, the people will want to know who their Queen will be. And everyone wants to meet a new Princess.”  
“Well, let’s not go around assuming--” Louis doesn’t know why he even tries, honestly.

“It can’t be _that_ hard to find a nice girl, Louis,” Daisy teases; he sighs.

Phoebe says, “Maybe it _is_ , you know, in his old age and all.”

“Okay, can we all shut up please,” Louis requests, volume loud enough to shrink out all their bugging over him getting a girlfriend. “Just cause Lottie’s settlin’ down doesn’t mean the rest of us are ready.”

Despite his requests, Fizzy sighs, adding, “We’re just concerned, Lou. We want you happy. And maybe a girl will cheer your miserable arse up.”

“Also, the people want--”

“Daisy!” Fizzy warns, cutting the younger girl off. Luckily, she listens.

“Listen, girls, I love all of you, but this isn’t your business,” Louis says; he tries to hold off from a groan, not wanting to show annoyance. He feels like the more they’re able to fluster him, the more interested they’ll get in doing so.

The table falls quiet-- despite the background noise from the otherwise crowded room, it seems to be muted as Louis makes eye contact with each of his sisters at the table with him, and none of them say a word.

“Okay, so no more questions about me personal life tonight?”  
After a moment, Fizzy sighs. “Just stay off your phone, Lou. We hardly do things like this anymore.”

*

Louis goes back to London and Harry stays in LA.

They continue to text, going about their own normal ( _ish_ ) adult lives on their own but making time for each other, sending at least a couple of messages back and forth every couple of days, exchanging goodnights and strings of vague emojis when they’re at their busiest.

It’s meaningless, mostly; they don’t vent or cry or share their thoughts on religion or life or morals, but it’s there. A sweet, well-appreciated sign of _‘I care enough’_ , and that’s a friendship Louis welcomes openly.

After a few weeks of this, Harry is off for a few weeks, leaves California in favour of England.

He spends a few days with his mum up North before coming down to London-- supposedly to see his _friends_ , but when Louis asks, his schedules completely clear.

from: Harry

_I haven’t been to that flat in, like, ten months_

from: Harry

_I don’t know what food I should buy and such_

Harry talks so formally, even to Louis’ standards-- it’s almost as annoying as it is endearing. 

to: Harry

_It doesn’t need to be fancy. I have low standards ;)_

from: Harry

_You... grew up in Buckingham Palace_

to: Harry

_Shut up Harry_

Tonight they have plans-- Louis hasn’t seen Harry _in person_ since the first night they met, and they’ve been talking for almost two months. It’s all shallow, really-- jokes, small updates about their days, Harry’s brief little rants about his management team followed by a grossly optimistic comment because he’s such a goddamn sweetheart.

He doesn’t really know how tonight’s gonna go, basically.

from: Harry

_Btw I have some bud if you’re interested_

Louis smiles at his phone.

to: Harry

_You know me too well, Styles ;)_

from: Harry

_I knew that one would work_

Taking a drink from the opened, mostly-full beer bottle on his nightstand (he doesn’t have a drinking problem, it’s just been a rough month), Louis has to hold back from letting it dribble onto his chin and shirt from giggling.

to: Harry

_Fuck offff_

From: Harry

_Never ;)_

Within a few minutes, Louis finishes off his beer, tells himself he won’t have another, and whisks himself off to the walk-in closet to find a cute outfit for tonight.

*

Before he leaves, Lottie catches him getting ready (Louis didn’t know she was even in the country). 

“Louis, got a date tonight?” She asks, sitting down on a beanbag a few feet from Louis’ full-length mirror.

He turns around, leaving go the thick section of hair he was messing with. “And why would you think that?”

“Uhm, you’re wearing sexy jeans. Wore them on fancy dates with Eleanor-- _and_ Danielle. Of course it’s a date.”

“Well, I’m not.” He turns back to continue fixing his hair-- and face. Fuck. Why did he _not_ start focusing on his face earlier? He looks a fucking mess. “I’m hanging out with Harry Styles.”

“Why do you always bring up Harry Styles when you’re brushing people off?”

“I don’t; nobody believes me when I talk about him. He’s my mate.”

“If he’s your mate, why don’t you hang out with him?”

He sighs; “That’s _literally_ what I’m doing right now.”

He doesn’t know why he’s so irritable-- he needs some space. And another beer. Scratch that-- tequila.

“Damn, okay,” she says. Louis doesn’t respond, looking quickly through his drawer for face lotion or concealer or _something_ to fix himself. “Guess I’ll leave you to it, then.”

She stands up.

Before she’s completely gone, he decides warmly to yell, “bye Lots!” She doesn’t respond before the door closes.

*

It doesn’t take more than ten seconds after Louis first knocks for Harry to open the door.

“Hi,” Louis says as he walks in, taking in the tiny kitchen that the front door opens into. “Smells nice.”

“Thank you. I’m making lobster tails, is that alright? Oh, god, I should’ve asked. I’m sorry.” Harry cringes as he rambles apologetically but Louis calms him down with a shoosh, like he’s comforting a hurt toddler.

“Don’t worry, ‘s perfect. I would’ve told you if I were, like, deathly allergic to anything.”

Harry’s shoulders loosen and he seems to be relieved at Louis’ approval of the dish. “Okay. That’s good.” He smiles, and Louis smiles. Then Harry turns back to the food on the stovetop. “Sit down, if you want.”

He smiles again and does.

“I can’t believe you’re proper cooking dinner for me.”

“What’d you expect? I told you _dinner_.”

“I don’ know, pizza or summat. Maybe hire someone to do it, at the most.”

Harry laughs at the suggestions, shaking his head.

“Isn’t hiring someone more effort than just cooking the food?” Louis looks confused, so Harry continues, “oh, wait. Forgot you were _Royalty_.” His emphasis on the last word is undeniably teasing, and his stupid grin confirms just that.

“Fuck off, I didn’t choose this,” Louis says annoyedly.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry continues to tease as he leans over the counter, closer to Louis. “It must be _so hard_ to be a British Monarch, set out to be one of the most powerful men in the world.”

“Damn right it is,” Louis affirms with a nod; it’s half of a joke.

Harry gets back to cooking, and Louis does his best not to shake his leg against the bar of the chair where his foot rests. It’s an anxious habit of his-- an awful one-- and during the quiet where Harry’s busy focusing, Louis sits there uselessly, looking pretty and repeating to himself _don’t shake, don’t shake, don’t stare, don’t shake_.

God, he wishes he’d had another drink before he came over. He wishes Harry would offer him some fucking alcohol. He _really_ wishes he could politely ask Harry for such a thing without coming off either presumptuous or like he’s trying to steal all of Harry’s drugs and food.

Is that possible? A Prince coming off as a beggar, and a picky one at that? Louis doesn’t think so, but he worries anyway. Harry does that to him.

This is _exactly_ why he _needs_ a drink in the first place.

“Would you like a drink?”  
_Yes_ \-- it’s working out.

“Uhm, do you have any beer?” 

Harry chuckles, but walks over to the fridge and grabs a bottle for him anyway. As he sets it down, sending the glass sliding on the clear surface of the tabletop, he jokes, “Always starting early with you, Lou.”

“Haha, yeah.”

It’s not early. Louis checks the time again, just in case-- six in the evening. This is _certainly_ a reasonable time to be drinking, thank you very much.

“ _Actually_ \--” Louis doesn’t know why he’s saying this, but continues the sentence he’s already started. “Six p.m. is a well fine time to start drinking.”

“I think you’re intense,” Harry says cheekily. Louis shakes his head.

Harry is putting things onto plates for them-- (he feels bad for not helping, but saves himself the embarrassment of offering, anyway. Even if Harry did assign a task for him-- which, Harry seems like the type to take his dinner hosting duties overly-seriously and disallow a guest to join in the preparation-- it’s easier for Louis to sit on the sidelines and just _not_ make an arse of himself) ( _spoiled little prince_ , rings in his head).

“Here,” Harry says, setting down a plate nearer to Louis and holding his own in two hands. “Let’s move to the proper table, yeah?”

The proper table turns out to be a little yellow wooden one, paint chipping enough to look rustic but not cheap, with two matching chairs. It’s so _Harry_ \-- the more little details Louis notices throughout the flat, the more he picks up on Harry’s complete essence.

“Cute,” Louis comments as he sits his arse in the wooden chair.

“What?” Harry asks, just running back to the kitchen for something else.

“‘S cute, your furniture and decor and… shit.” _(Very eloquently put, Louis.)_

“Oh. Thank you.” Harry says; Louis can’t tell if his face shows fluster or if it’s simply the lighting he’s not used to.

They eat and chat lightly-- Harry mentions he’d finally written a song after struggling over writing for the last year and some, and Louis smiles giddily and doesn’t let him escape from talking about it. He doesn’t know if he has the warrants for such a thing, but, nonetheless, Louis is proud.

The table remains busy until they finish their drinks-- it takes long, all the slight sipping between conversations that move back and forth easily-- when they decide to move to the balcony.

As soon as the sliding glass door opens, Louis is whining. 

“Harry,” he squeaks as soon as the October air hits his warm skin, “it’s cold.”

Harry laughs at him. “I’ll grab us some blankets, love.” He quickly returns into the building (leaving Louis in the cold) before returning.

“Thank you,” Louis says, smiling appreciatively. Harry nods then kneels down at the small coffee table to prepare a joint for them.

Since he’s gotten there, Louis has gone softer and quieter than he usually is. He seldom settles down from his loud, high-energy, party-ready self, it’s a rare, golden sight when he’s eased into his calm.

“Harry,” he says, demandingly; when Harry looks up at him, he continues, “come back up here and cuddle me, I’m cold.’

Harry, who looked concerned a moment ago, falls into a sweet smile.

“Give me a mo’.”

“‘Kay.” 

They sit too closely on the lounge chair, exchanging hits ‘til they run out of drugs. No one keeps track of time, leaving their phones indoors while shutting themselves out, but Louis takes note of the moon moving across the sky, bigger difference each time; it’s nice, to say the least.

*

Louis is only home for one day before he’s at Harry’s apartment again.

Yesterday, Lottie pulled him and Fizzy out to wedding dress shop with her (or, more accurately, throw a couple mini-tantrums before crying in Louis’ shoulder about how “ _I just want it to be perfect but I’m being unreasonable”_ ), and he spent the most of today on the phone with event managers and charities he works with (he might seem bad but he’s not an awful person!) 

But, he’s finally-- _finally_ \-- back with Harry.

It’s only been a few over twenty-four hours, but _still_. It’s not his fault he finally has a friend in London!

“Haz,” Louis said, opening the door to Harry’s apartment. He closes it behind him, flipping the bolt lock. “Hellooo?”

“In m’ bedroom!” he responded, muffled through a wall. Louis nodded, ignoring that Harry couldn’t see him, and sat his arse on the sofa.

After a few minutes, Harry walks in.

“Hello,” the man says, dopey smile striking his face.

“Hello-- what’s the smile for?”

“Nothin’. Just happy to see you.”

Louis relaxes at that, sinking into the sofa as Harry does the same next to him. “Cute.” Harry hums contently at that. “Plans for tonight?”

Harry unclasps his hands, revealing a small bit of weed and a pipe.

“Oh, so we’re doing it all proper and fancy tonight?”

Teasingly, Harry laughs. “Had to save something for the second date, after all.”

Louis doesn’t comment on the date part-- maybe he lets his cheeks flush _a little_ , but he limits himself to that-- just accepting the banter between mates and letting his immature mind focus on the drugs.

The weird part of it all is, Louis doesn’t know _when_ he started crushing on Harry. On a similar note, he also doesn’t know when he started _being attracted to men_ , but that part is much less surprising-- it might’ve been telling that he was always one of the only straight men he knew who didn’t find lesbian porn hot, but he wasn’t surprised when the epiphany hit him that it’s because he watched the men. Maybe it was last night he was here, or maybe it’s been going on from the start, maybe even it was a flirtatious subtext of their text messages, but at some point in the last months, Louis decided he would very much like to kiss Harry’s sweet little face.

And it didn’t bother him that Harry was very much a man.

“Well, always a good night to smoke and shoot the shit.”

“Actually,” Harry says, dropping the supplies onto the coffee table and leaning to nudge Louis playfully, “I was thinking, we should watch a horror movie.”

“A horror movie?” Louis raises an eyebrow, Harry just gives a confirming nod; but Louis knows Harry _hates_ horror movies. “Love, we can watch something _you like_.”

“No no no no no no no,” Harry protests. “That’s what _this_ is for.” He holds up the bag of weed for emphasis. “I want to watch it, but I’ll get high so I don’t have a fucking heart attack. It’ll be fun. I haven’t watched anything scary since I was a teenager.”

“Because that was forever ago,” Louis rolled his eyes.

“Shut up. Just say I’m _the best_ and you’ll watch a horror movie with me.”

Harry leans back-- slightly resting against Louis-- and holds the prepared pipe and a white lighter. On it, Sharpies doodle little smiley faces and shapes. He takes a hit from the bowl, twice, then three times, then pushes it towards Louis, who politely shakes his head.

“You’re the best and I’ll watch a horror movie with you.” He pauses for a moment to sigh, then references the pipe again. “You need this more than I do, love.”

They pick something off of Netflix, and by the end, even Louis is disturbed, both surprised and proud that neither he nor Harry has thrown up by the end (Louis regrets letting Harry smoke the most of it himself, wishing he didn’t have to be entirely there for that experience), so, as a cooldown, they put on _Coraline_ , a favourite children’s movie of Louis’ that he’s only slightly too old for.

But, of course, Harry’s hiding his eyes in Louis’ shoulder, still wary.

Ten minutes into the new movie, Louis strokes the side of Harry’s face softly and looks at him dazed. “Haz, you can come out now, you know. It’s all fine, love.”

“No,” Harry groans, burrowing further. “That was fuckin’ awful.”

“Baby,” Louis says (maybe he’s higher than he thought-- maybe he’s just bold from leftover adrenaline). He strokes the curly hair away from where it’s covering part of his face, finding one green eye looking up at him. He smiles and lets Harry burrow away in the excess of his sweatshirt.

For comfort, he wraps his arm tightly on his waist, locking his hands together to press their torsos together tightly.

The movie progresses, and, gradually, their crotches manage to align next to each other (Louis _swears_ this wasn’t planned, just happened over time). He tries to ignore it, but it gets harder (in a few ways) when Harry’s sweet little hips move against his.

He’s not sure that Harry knows he’s doing it-- like, obviously he must feel _something_ , but he could be in a half-asleep, dream-like daze of happiness and butterflies and no dirty thoughts about Louis’ cock, which he’s teasing in the midst of everything else.

“Haz?” Louis asks softly, right into the boy’s ear, which does nothing but make him slow his hips. “Harry, Harry,” he adds, losing his breath.

When Louis sweetly brushes a bit hair away from his face, Harry is looking up at him; instead of nuzzling into his chest or sweatshirt, he slowly surges up to touch their noses. His voice is halfway gone, but he manages a whisper of, “Louis.”

With little hesitation, Louis brings his hand down to grab the other man’s bum, who lets out a barely audible whimper at the contact, even through his jeans (Louis has to resist rolling his eyes-- why the bloody hell is he wearing _jeans_?) Deciding to press it further, he gets one hand on each side and grabs, shamelessly.

Harry lets out a fuller whine and resumes rutting his hips forward, as he was a few moments ago. The main difference being, this time Louis knows it’s intentional. 

After a little bit of desperate progression, Harry starts with the nipping at Louis’ neck, sprinkling in small kitten licks and mewls of _“please”_.

Louis slips his three fingers into the edge of Harry’s waistband, under both his jeans and briefs. “This okay?” Harry nods.

“Can I take off your shirt?”

“Yes,” Louis answers immediately, trying not to be so embarrassed as his voice breaks over the word.

Harry rushes to get his arms under the hem and pushes up, brushing Louis’ nipples and collarbones on the way; he tries his best not to react, but who is he kidding? Harry Styles is taking his shirt off, of _course_ it’s got him hot.

As soon as he’s finished with that, Harry is attaching himself at the base of Louis’ neck and he sucks down hard, not holding back at all. The burning feel of Harry’s teeth pressing down in his skin is making it difficult to focus.

But, nonetheless, Louis pushes his arm into Harry’s too-tight jeans and aligns his wrist with the lad’s cock, beginning to stroke it in even tempo with his quickening heartbeat.

It takes about two minutes of this, combined with Harry kissing roughly along Louis’ neck and shoulders, for Harry to come, still wearing his jeans.

After that, he brings his hands to cup Louis’ bulge in his trackies and moves it up and down roughly; the friction of his boxers coupled with Harry’s soft little noises is what gets Louis off, in the end.

Harry falls asleep directly after; Louis watches the rest of Coraline.

*

He’s helping Fizzy with homework when it comes up.

Louis is getting pissed off with calculous, desperately Googling shit on his phone to try to be an adequate brother in the midst of his cluelessness, and Fizzy seems to be more finding entertainment in his frustration rather than being half as productive as she would be on her own.

“Fizzy?”

“Yeah?”

“Just know you’ll never fucking need this in your life,” Louis says before erasing something else on the borrowed scrap paper he’s using.

“I know.”

It’s silent for a moment before Fizzy speaks again.

“Louis?”

“Yeah, Fiz?”

He looks up, taking a break from copying down an example from his phone, expecting a new question he can’t answer.

“Are you _sure_ you weren’t on a date last night?”

At that, she presses down pointedly on a fucking _hickey_ left at the junction of Louis’ neck, visible only in his ill-fitting shirt. He flinches.

“ _Oi!_ That hurts, love.” He stands up, walking a few feet away to a gigantic mirror in her bedroom where he pulls down the already loose collar to get a good look at it. “Huh, I guess that did leave a mark.”

“Who’s your girlfriend?” she asks, giggling in such a _typical_ way to make Louis roll his eyes.

“No one, Fiz.”

“Come on, Lou,” she whines, pushing aside the homework she’s no longer even slightly interested in. “You’ve been with _someone_ recently.”

He sighs; “Harry Styles.”

“Maybe I’ll get a name out of you one day.” She sounds annoyed; Louis just shakes his head.

*

They finally talk about it three days later; Harry seems busy (Louis sees a Harry Styles fan account spotting him with his sister shopping downtown) but he finally texts Louis (for the first time _at all_ in days) to come over, that he’ll make some pancakes-- who is Louis to say no to that?

When he arrives at Harry’s apartment, however, the small counters are loaded up with not only pancakes, but also bacon, French toast, and crumpets-- the tea is already prepared. Louis is positively, completely whooed. 

They talk, deciding they _really do_ like one another and the late-night handjob decidedly wasn’t a mistake. 

Harry _actually_ kisses him, like, for real.

And, then, things are good.

They spend a lot of time together-- like, a lot. They both have jobs and lives and families and other friends (even if that last part is a bit exclusive to Harry), but it’s enough. Louis grows to love their little routine of hanging out every couple of days, adjusting for Harry’s little two-day trips to Los Angeles for work; Harry gets used to cutting down on those trips, prioritizing both Louis and his family.

Apparently, Gemma’s heard that Harry has a bit of a boyfriend-- Louis didn’t know they were officially ‘boyfriends’ until that conversation but is completely and utterly delighted at the news-- but doesn’t know specifics. He told her his name was Louis-- _“Like the Prince?”_ she asked, eating up the information. Harry confirmed it, giggling to his _boyfriend_ about how silly the circumstances are.

Louis doesn’t tell Lottie, still feeling the need to keep their little thing, sweet and fragile, protected.

Zayn and Liam learn, eventually, and Liam’s just glad to hear that Louis finally admitted to himself that he’s gay. (Louis doesn’t realise that other people already knew, but Liam knows everything.)

Louis is _happy_ \-- happier than he’s been in his life.

*

Louis is in love. Obviously.

Except, not so much.

When he finally realises, multiple months after the first _‘boyfriend’_ drop, they’re sitting on Harry’s balcony drinking coffee-- so bloody American, but so bloody good. The air’s gone cold, it now being December, but they warm themselves with the mugs in their hands and layers of blankets, under which they cuddle up to each other. It’s such a gentle moment, and Louis could stay here forever.

They’ve been out here for a while-- far too long, they came to watch the sunset a couple of hours ago but have since been telling every story that comes to mind.

“So then, Gemma tells my grandma that I pissed myself, so of _course_ I started crying.” Harry finishes up the Christmas dinner horror story and Louis is trying not to spill his coffee as he’s bent over in laughter, his shoulders spilling out from the covers and letting in cold air.

After a minute, Louis finishes up laughing, still red-faced and breathless-- Harry is just as red-faced with embarrassment, but shakes it off nonetheless. When Louis’ recovered enough to confidently sip from his mostly-empty coffee mug again, Louis finally asks, “What are your plans for Christmas this year?”

“I definitely want to go home for Christmas-- Gem’s been yelling at me that she misses me for weeks.”

Louis laughs; “you were just home, like, last month.”

“I know, I know. Quite clingy, she is.” Louis laughs at that-- he’d laugh at just about anything Harry says, if he’s being honest-- then Harry continues. “Nah, though, I love her a lot. Just wish she’d stop asking about you so much.”

Endeared, Louis giggles, caressing his cheek sweetly. “She knows you’re dating a Prince, love. She’s trying to get to me.”

Harry laughs and slaps his hand away. “Fuck off.” Louis keeps laughing as Harry groans, “I hate you.”

 _I love you_ , Louis thinks immediately, and _oh._

_Oh._

_That makes a lot more sense._

“I--,” Louis starts, awkwardly cutting himself off when he realises he can’t let the admission slip _just_ yet-- “hate you more.”

Harry giggles, leaning into Louis’ neck, where he relaxes into him.

Louis definitely could get used to this.

Grabbing him from the wispy hairs at the bottom of his neck, Harry pulls Louis into a kiss, strikingly hot in the wintery air.

 _I love him_ , Louis thinks, thankful he can’t get the words out when his lips are otherwise occupied. _I love him, I love him, I love him_.


	2. The Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge thanks to my lovely beta reader/soulmate [elle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavenlyfool), the only reason i continued writing this.
> 
> check updated warnings/tags before reading <3

_ Finally _ , Louis thinks,  _ LA.  _

He sips the Starbucks latte his assistant, Finn, got for him the moment they landed.

_ Finally, Harry _ . They’re pulling into his neighbourhood. Louis makes an effort to fix himself up-- it’s hard, he’s wearing a Stones shirt with a Nike hoodie jacket over it and just spent ten hours on a plane. Maybe he should’ve give himself a window to freshen up, but hopefully Harry won’t be an ass about his appearance right now.

They haven’t seen each other in a while; since just after Harry’s birthday, four months ago now. And, as much as he’s wanted to, Louis’ refrained from complaining; he has a job, he has a life, and they’re both doing their own thing. They still make Facetime calls at least once a month, it’s really fine.

The car comes to Harry’s house and pulls to a stop.

He walks inside with his head held high and a forced smile (and his suitcase and backpack) (and Finn following behind, escorting him to the door like a misbehaving toddler he has to check on-- god-fucking-dammit Finn). 

As he waits for Harry to answer the door, he feels blood rushing through his ears and cheeks, painting him pink as a dead giveaway for how nervous he is-- he hopes it’s disguised in the gross Los Angeles heat.

Despite this, Harry looks better than ever.

Louis has to catch his breath to say ‘hi’.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” Harry replies, smirking and playing it excessively cool. Louis makes out the hint of a smile, mostly in his eyes, as Harry holds the door open for him to come in. Louis is happy to finally shoe Finn away.

Once the door closes, Harry lets his guard down just a little bit, fixing his greeting with a baby-voiced, “Hi, lovely.”

“Hey, babe.” Louis only lets himself smile affectionately for a moment before switching his demeanour. “Are you gonna help me with these heavy bags or stand there like a Barbie doll?”

Harry laughs (Louis loves his smile) and picks up the suitcase and starts carrying it into his bedroom.

Sure, Louis’ been here before, but it’s been a while-- when he thinks of it, he isn’t sure he’s ever been in the master bedroom ( _ “master bedroom”  _ is a slight stretch-- there are far too many spare rooms, each one a little too big with its own ensuite) (Louis isn’t sure why Harry bought this mansion, his London apartment is half the size of his California home’s living room).

Like a proper gentleman, Harry holds the door open (still carrying the suitcase-- he  _ has  _ to know it has wheels) and lets Louis walk in; overwhelmed might be an understatement.

“What the fuck,” Louis says flatly. “What’s your bloody bedroom gotta be so fucking  _ big _ for?”

Harry shrugs. “I was seventeen and had money; go big or go home, I guess, and I chose LA  _ cause  _ it’s so far from home.”

“Pretty much everything you’d never do anymore.” Harry nods. “Seriously, I grew up in Buckingham fucking Palace and  _ I  _ think this is excessive.”

“You like to call  _ everything  _ fancy, Lou. Act like you grew up in Newcastle.”

Louis rolls his eyes, finally letting his backpack drop.

“My mum would call this exessive.”

Harry shrugs again. Finally, he puts down the suitcase next to the dresser, deciding to leave the unpacking to later.

They haven’t exactly discussed how long Louis would be staying for-- maybe Harry thinks Louis has a plan, but all he really knows is that he hasn’t seen his boyfriend for four months and he hasn’t booked a flight back. He makes a mental note to discuss that later.

Harry sits on the bed and Louis meets him there, un-tensing his shoulders for the first time since he left the aeroplane.

“I’ve missed you,” Louis says quietly, whispering it as if it’s a secret, as if saying it quietly makes him less vulnerable.

“Me too, baby,” Harry said, taking hold of the bottom of Louis shirt to fiddle with it. “Me too.”

*

That night, Harry cooks dinner (steak-- he’s definitely trying to impress) and plays Louis some track demos while lazing on the couch. They spend at least three hours just kissing and touching, just to feel each other. It’s soft and romantic and plush.

They have sex later in the night, but it’s something more akin to making love. 

By the time he falls asleep in Harry’s arms that night, he feels nothing of the hundreds of anxieties he had when he arrived.

Maybe sometime soon he’ll have to tell Harry that he’s in love.

*

The next morning, Harry leaves for work at two (it really isn’t early, but Louis couldn’t even guess how long they stayed up shooting the shit last night and he only woke up to Harry’s one PM alarm). 

“I have a photoshoot today, babes,” Harry says groggily, still in bed after snoozing his phone. “Awful scheduling on my part.”

Sighing, Louis replies, “I know. ‘Long will you be?”

“Maybe two or three hours. I’ll be home to make dinner,” he says positively, forcefully trying to make it sound okay. (It isn’t okay. Louis only just saw his boyfriend for the first time in four months and he has bloody  _ work _ ? He’s allowed to be clingy right now, dammit.)

“‘Kay. ‘M going back to bed.”

“Okay, Lou.” Harry leans down to kiss him on the forehead. Louis doesn’t remember anything after that.

Two hours later, Louis wakes up for good finally (he blames the jet lag, but that doesn’t even make sense-- that just makes it even worse for him.)

Harry should be home in about an hour, but Louis is hungry now. So, he struts down the hallway and finds his way into Harry’s kitchen, kneeling on the top of counters to search through cabinets. 

A lot of it is just ingredients and spices, mixed in with some dishes; he finds one of cereal and uncooked pasta, but the cereal is all health shit, stuff his sister would eat when she’s dieting. His nose scrunching at the thought, he closes up and simply takes a fruity wine cooler from the fridge.

That’s not really good either, but Louis resigns to it as there’s no other alcohol immediately within reach. Since they met-- almost a year ago now, Louis realizes-- he’s never seen Harry drink any alcohol that isn’t a fruity pink or flaming, neon orange; he’d truly find it obnoxious if it were anyone else. There was one time in London they drank a bottle of vodka together (which Harry likely bought specifically  _ for  _ Louis), but he doesn’t see any bottles sitting around the countertops. 

He drinks three grossly-sweet wine coolers in an hour.

When it reaches two hours since Harry had said he’d be home, Louis finally calls him; it goes to voicemail after two rings.

Thirty minutes later (the one good thing about being alone with free time in California: more options on American Netflix), he finally gets a call back.

“Har--”

“Lou- _ eh _ !” He sounds drunk. “Hi, baby.”

“ _ Harry _ ,” Louis says sharply, like a strict mom on the phone with a misbehaving teenager. “Where  _ are  _ you?”

“Niall-- I ran into him-- you know Niall? I love Niall. He invited me back to his place, ‘n I haven’t seen him in a while.” 

_ You haven’t seen me in a while _ , Louis hardly restrains himself from saying.

Masking the jealousy, he instead focuses on calming himself from sadness. “You didn’t call.”

“My phone died earlier. I left it charging and just saw it turned back on.”

_ You hung up earlier _ , Louis thinks.  _ You hung up after two rings _ .

“It took two hours to charge up?” Even though it’s only a phone call, Louis knows the confused eyebrow raise on Harry’s face. “You were supposed to get home two hours ago. At the  _ latest _ .”

“Sorry, baby.” He can hear Harry’s pout, too.

“I don’t care,” Louis says quickly, mostly to convince himself. “Get home quickly.”

“Okay, lovely.”

“Bye.”

He hangs up without waiting for a response.

*

Louis doesn’t know what time he falls asleep, but it wasn’t more than six hours after he woke up.

When he wakes up in a guest room, (the one he stayed in on the only occasion he’s stayed over Harry’s before, back in October) he’s drowsy and disoriented, the room completely dark except for a small nightlight in the corner he vaguely remembers turning on.

He finds his phone tangled within the covers, mostly dead due to lack of foresight to grab his charger, and he checks the time:  _ 05:41 _ .

His mouth is dry; he probably  _ should’ve  _ grabbed some water. He didn’t drink enough to feel any hint of a hangover, but he definitely should’ve drunk more water. (It’s not like he normally prioritizes hydration, but it’s a lot harder to forget with staff force-feeding him bottled water on the hour.)

Deciding to will himself out of bed (he didn’t eat yesterday and he’s feeling it pretty hard), he uses his phone’s flashlight to hardly find his way to the kitchen.

Where the light is on.

Harry’s standing in front of the stove, cooking casually with such swagger that Louis almost forgets he’s supposed to be mad. At the noise of Louis’ hesitant footsteps, he turns around with a confident smile, not at  _ all  _ looking like last night he was completely sloshed and got less than four hours of sleep.

“Hey, babe,” he says casually.

Louis sits down the breakfast bar, murmuring half of a, ‘hi’, while he sits down. He doesn’t want to look up at Harry properly so instead opts to study the marble pattern of the countertop. 

“Sleep well?” Louis just shrugs in response.

“Eh.”

“I’m sorry. I’m making breakfast.”

Pass aggressively, Louis quietly says, “You’re up awfully early.”

“I have a meeting at eight-- tour stuff. I wanted to make you breakfast and sneak in a cuddle.

“You weren’t in bed when I got in last night.” Harry’s frowning as he says the last part, leaning over close to Louis as he lets the pan simmer on its own. “You okay, love?”

“Fine,” Louis says. “You were drinking. It stinks.” He scrunches his nose for effect.

Harry frowns. “It’s not  _ that  _ bad. I wanted to cuddle.”

With faux pity, Louis mimics the pout, dramatically holding Harry’s cheeks in his fingers. “Should’ve gotten earlier, baby.” 

Harry looks like he wants to say something but gets interrupted by his phone ringing near by. He looks at the name and back to Louis guiltily before picking up.

“‘Ello,” he says, casually flipping a pancake with a spatula like it’s not a big deal (if Louis tried to replicate it, he’d either burn himself or turn the pancake to mush.)

“Yeah, yeah.” Louis is looking at him, waiting to hear what the context of the phone call is, but gets nothing as Harry’s completely turned around and the voice on the other end is nothing but a mouse-ish murmur.

“Umm…”

He looks at Louis like he’s bracing for bad news; Louis almost does at the look on Harry’s face.

“No, I don’t think I can. Yeah, you too. Bye.”

He hangs up and Louis uses every non-verbal tactic he knows to ask Harry what the call was about.

“Work stuff,” he says. “I told them I didn’t want to go into the studio at all today.”

As much as he tries to, Louis can’t stop the pleased smile that creeps its way onto his face. He forgives Harry about five percent. 

*

Harry’s home within two hours of leaving and he happily meets Louis on the sofa with some McDonald’s (Louis almost says “I love you” on accident.)

At dinnertime, Louis sits aside the breakfast bar at a seat that’s become his own in the last few days as Harry makes steak for them. It’d feel like a formal first date if they weren’t in pajama bottoms and Harry’s old t-shirts.

Over dinner, Harry updates Louis on plans for his tour; Louis can hardly bare the thought of losing Harry again when he’s hardly had him back for 48 hours but listens as diligently as he can manage, smiling along and chewing when he can’t manage that.

It’s nice; Louis remembers why he fell in love in the first place.

Harry’s a charmer when he tries to be.

  
  


“Babe,” Harry says, poking Louis in the arm with his pointer finger. “Babe,--”  _ poke _ \-- “baby,--”  _ poke _ \-- “babe,--”  _ poke _ ,-- “ _ Lou. _ ”

Louis is hardly awake, seeing a fuzzy outline of the telly screen and hearing nothing but Harry’s gentle but annoying voice. Thoughtlessly, he reaches for the first thing he finds-- a fluffy pillow, to Harry’s luck-- and blindly swings it into Harry’s face.

“Fucking poke me one more time.”

He closes his eyes again, this time bracing to be touched, but Harry just sweetly laughs.  _ Gentle _ .

“Love, you fell asleep watching Harry Potter,” Harry explains, soothingly stroking Louis’ leg to wake him up. “I let you sleep for a couple hours but I didn’t want your back to hurt.”

“M’back already hurts.” He pulls his leg in, away from Harry. “Your sofa’s cozy.”

“Come on, Prince, let’s get you into a proper bed.”

Harry put his arms under Louis’ legs as if he was picking him up and carrying him bridal style-- he’s so sweet, it’s disgusting. Louis scowls and waves his arms, now much more aware.

“Oi, put me down!” Harry, obviously teasing, just pulls him even closer, causing Louis to flail his arms dramatically. “I’m bloody royalty, this is kidnapping!”

“Nope,” Harry giggles. At first Louis thought he was only  _ joking  _ about carrying him but Louis’ fighting it eggs him on. He’s being moved through the house, hardly aware of his surroundings as it passes him by.

Not that Louis minds being carried, but he may as well put on a show.

“Get your disgusting hands off of me! I’m a Prince! I have the best lawyers in all of bloody England!”

“Go ahead and try, baby. I’m an American man, got the best lawyers in California.”

“Pfft, as if America’s legal system bends to the will of popstars. I’m a  _ monarch _ , I’ll ruin your life, perv.”

“You know nothing about America, love.”

As if it’s effortless, Harry opens the bedroom door and lays Louis on the bed delicately, reminding Louis of an all-too-cheesy movie scene of a bride being treated with love on her wedding night.

Of course, it’s a little late for the emotional first time and a little early for the soft sex made up of little whispers promising forever, but. 

He likes the concept.

“You shouldn’t have carried me,” Louis says. He doesn’t mean to whisper but Harry’s face is only six inches from his own, the man holding himself up on stiff arms.

“I should’ve.”

Louis refuses to agree but his shy, hesitant smile is enough for Harry to get the memo of  _ yeah, you should’ve _ .

Instead of a response, he wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and pulls himself up to kiss him. (It’s kind of difficult, between the angle and his weak arms-- Louis sees why Lottie and Mum have been wanting him to rehire his personal trainer.)

(It’s difficult, but it’s romantic. And Louis’ a cheesy bastard as much as he tries to deny it.)

They kiss like that for a moment or three. Louis isn’t sure if Harry’s mind is in the same place as his, but he thinks he’s showing  _ his _ intentions by the way he’s holding on to him.

Giving Louis’ arms a rest, Harry carefully leans down so the Prince falls perfectly on the pillow. Louis smiles against Harry’s lips, letting his neck relax finally, and Harry adjusts to him. With his arms free, Louis wraps them around Harry’s shoulders, trying to get him as close as possible.

It’s slightly hot, being so close and fully dressed in pajama pants and big t-shirts; it doesn’t help that Louis’ flustered, blood drawn to the surface of his cheeks and ears. But the heat is disregarded, embraced as he does nothing but pull closer.

Maybe tugging on the side of Harry’s shirt will move this in the right direction.

He pulls back, face almost as flushed as Louis imagines his own. He’s panting through a smile and looks smug as ever, even while so disheveled like this. Louis would roll his eyes if he weren’t disgustingly in love.

“Shirt off,” Louis says, voice coming out almost like a question. It’s obvious Harry’s in charge right now, but Louis will always be an annoying bastard. He tugs on the side again, this time lifting it up to let his other hand caress his abs. Harry smirks, moving into it just enough for Louis to know he’s playing the same game.

“Please.” This time Louis puts on his sweet voice and puppy eyes. “Take your shirt off please.”

Harry looks like he wants to tease some more but stops when Louis adds in a slack, open mouth. He knows his lips get red and glossy after a bit of kissing and uses Harry’s weakness to his advantage.

“Okay, babe. Okay.”

Louis tries not to smile, knowing his pride will make Harry less eager to follow.

Within a few moments, Harry’s shirt is somewhere along the floor beside the bed and he’s moving big hands up and down Louis’ torso, as if asking permission to take it off; Louis just makes eye contact with him and bites his bottom lip as prettily as he can manage. (That gets Harry moving pretty quickly.)

With both of their shirts removed, Louis isn’t sure either of them know the next step-- Harry’s looking and down between Louis face and crotch, stopping a bit to linger when they make eye contact. Louis wonders if it’d be proper etiquette to take his dick out now and save them some time and awkwardness.

Eh. It’s not like he’s ever had great manners anyway.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks when he climbs out of the bed.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’ll strip myself if you won’t,” Louis answers simply. His pajama bottoms hit the floor and he slides his fingers under the waist of his pants.

Harry, now centimetres away from Louis, and covers Louis’ smaller hand with his own. “No,” he growls. “Let me.”

Louis looks up into his eyes and sees they’re blown out, pupils wide and dazed, green darker than he’s ever seen it before, especially up close. He’s looking down, eyelashes fanned over cheekbones that Louis feels compelled to taste.

As Harry’s slowly teasing Louis out of his boxers, Louis leans forward and goes for it, licking up the side of Harry’s jaw to as high on his cheek he could reach while standing on tip-toes. 

It seems to break Harry out of his sex god trance when he smiles dumbly at Louis, but,  _ god _ , Louis loves him.

Louis  _ loves him _ . Loves him like nothing else in the world.

He’ll tell him at some point. Tonight. Later.

The moment feels a little wrong for a bomb like that right now.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Harry says, lifting Louis’ feet out of his clothes to leave him completely naked. Being so exposed, in contrast to Harry who’s clothed aside from his shirt, usually would make Louis feel vulnerable, but the adoration in Harry’s eyes and kisses is reassuring.

He’s sucking a little harder than usual, biting down, and leaving pink little marks up his thighs that will surely fade to hickeys. Louis allows it, more than usual, not planning on leaving the house for a while-- he may as well let Harry live out his possessive kinks.

“Harry,” Louis says breathlessly, curling his fingers in Harry’s hair. He feels Harry laugh against his skin. “Harry, let me suck your cock.”

“Shit. Shit, okay.”

He stands up quickly, kissing Louis on the mouth as he pushes his own pants and trackies down; Louis almost wants to do it himself but loves how Harry is hot and passionate, rushing through the motions and pushing Louis back onto the bed.

Harry’s holding one of his hands but Louis brings the other down to stroke Harry’s cock, teasing where it’s already full hard and leaking.

Pulling back from the kiss (and bringing a trail of spit with him-- he’d never admit to how hot that is), he wriggles from being pressed under Harry down to be even with his crotch. Harry seems to catch on, rolling on his side and then his back and Louis finds his place kneeling on the floor.

Deciding not to wait for direction, Louis teasingly licks up the side of Harry’s cock while prettily batting his eyes. Whenever his eyes get teary, his eyelashes clump together beautifully (and, as Harry’s told him so many times, it happens during sex.) He’s using all of Harry’s weaknesses against him tonight, but that should only make it better for both of them.

“You’re good at this,” Harry praises, voice low and strained. Louis loves it and it encourages him to go further, taking the shaft into his mouth. 

He knows his eyes go bluer when they’re teary, too. He looks up at Harry and their eyes meet.

Harry seems to like this, moving a hand from holding himself up to hold the bottom of Louis’ hair above his neck. “Lou, babe, you’re  _ really fucking good at this _ .” (Louis has to try not to smile at that.)

They go on like that for a few minutes, Louis taking Harry deeper and deeper while Harry plays with his hair idly. Louis must look entirely fucked out already, but that seems to be spurring Harry further.

Harry’s always been like that-- wanting it to be as physically apparent as possible that Louis has been completely wrecked. Even when he’s on bottom, he’s always scratching up and down Louis back, leaving imprints of his teeth and hickeys on the side of Louis’ hips and his stomach and private places for only them.

Thinking of that, Louis abruptly pulls off from Harry’s cock and rests on the man’s thigh, commanding with his scratchy throat, “Fuck me, Harry.”

“Hmm?” Harry hums, dazed and hot.

“Fuck me.”

Before he finishes his sentence, Louis is already climbing into his lap and steadying himself above his cock. He needs lube-- why is there no readily available lube? That’s fucking stupid, he doesn’t want to move.

“Harry, we need lube.”

“Top drawer on the right nightstand.”

Louis scoffs. “You expect  _ me  _ to get it? I’m letting you put it in me, I’m doing my part.”

“You’re practically  _ begging _ for it, Lou, that’s hardly a hardship.”

“Oi, watch it, mate; are you calling me  _ easy _ ?”

“Maybe I am,” Harry teases, cupping his hands over Louis’ ass and teasing a dry finger against his hole. “Do I have to get it?” He says whining, high and annoyed like a little kid.

Louis just nods. 

Unsurprisingly, Harry listens that easily.

While his boyfriend retrieves the tiny bottle, Louis rolls onto his back, legs spread and exposing him. Harry licks his lips at the sight.

“D’ya need fingered?” Harry asks, pouring some lube into his hand and warming it up for a moment.

“No, no, no. Just  _ hurry up _ ,” Louis says demandingly.

“Are you sure, Lou? We haven’t done this in a while.”

“Don’t be so goddamn cocky, I can fucking take you. Hurry the fuck  _ up _ .”

He doesn’t do anything, instead just leans down to kiss Louis’ chest playfully.

“C’mon, Harry,” Louis says. (He’s not begging. He refuses to beg.) “Please, please, please. Don’t make me wait any longer.”

Harry finally smiles at him, kissing his cheek and wetting Louis’ hole with the lube. “Since you’ve asked so nicely…”

“Fuck me, Harry. Just, fuck me.”

He pulls back; Louis can see him lubing up his cock for just a moment before--  _ shit _ , it’s pressing into him. 

“Fuck,” Louis cries. Maybe he should’ve let Harry finger him a bit but the stretch only makes it so much better.

Harry leans down, completely covering Louis and nipping at his neck. “Like that, baby? Know it hurts. So good, so lovely, Louis.”

Admittedly, he’s overwhelmed for a moment. Laying back with his eyes closed, he has to catch his breath as Harry slowly moves in, in, in (is he bigger than Louis remembered? He knows it’s been a few months but  _ Christ _ .)

After a moment of their hips touched together, Louis taking the full length of Harry’s cock inside of him, Louis catches his breath again. He opens his eyes, foggy and wet as they are, and meets Harry’s as he says, “Okay. Okay, move.”

He’s not sure he’s ever felt better in his life.

Harry’s movements begin jarred and hesitant but he quickly falls into a rhythm that has both men moaning louder by the minute (Louis is beginning to see the advantages of having such a big fucking house for one person.) 

Somewhere through his moans and cries of Harry’s name, Louis pleas for Harry to  _ mark him  _ with hickeys up and down his neck and shoulder and places he’d never usually allow. Because the moment is  _ theirs  _ and the week is for  _ them  _ and right now Louis isn’t a Prince, but simply Harry’s.

And it seems Harry has to stop himself from coming in that moment, as soon as Louis asks for lovebites on his neck.

It feels wrong, Harry sucking so purposely and dirty in a place so exposed, but Louis’d be lying if he said it didn’t rile him up. 

“Fuck, I’m close, baby. Dunno how much longer I can last,” Harry eventually says, pulling away from the column he’s been focused on on Louis’ neck. In a few hours, Louis will have a thick line running from his jaw down to his chest with how strategically Harry’s placement has been but he doesn’t mind in the slightest.

“Come on,” Louis encourages, moving his hips in time to meet Harry’s thrusts. “Come in me, baby.”

And ten seconds later, Harry lets go, as if he’s been on edge for hours, just waiting for Louis to say the words.

Louis follows soon after, with the combination of being filled, Harry’s continued loving thrusts, and the man now leaning over to suck into his bicep-- he’s such a baby, marking literally  _ everywhere  _ the second Louis gives him permission to do so.

He’s never had an orgasm like this before-- never knew it was a real thing to “see stars” until now. He’s sure he blacked out for a moment but doesn’t seem to recall it.

All he knows is that Harry’s arms are around him when he comes back to and there’s a line or two of saliva on his back.

“I love you,” Louis says meekly. “Love you so much, Hazza.”

He turns around to face him, deciding on a kiss on the lips to celebrate the occasion.

When he meets Harry’s eyes, they’re closed and asleep.

Louis isn’t sure if he’s more disappointed or relieved.

*   
  


Harry doesn’t work the next day, but they both spend a while sitting in Harry’s room answering emails, Harry at the desk and Louis in bed. It’s nice. 

In the afternoon, Harry runs to the market to pick up some junk food for Louis ( _ “I can’t do this health shit, Harry-- I gagged while eating Raisin Bran the other night. I ended up just not eating” _ ) And Louis takes the opportunity to sip from a bottle of tequila Harry left out the other night. It gets him through the rest of the evening swimmingly.

They share a blunt on the back balcony before bed and Harry only spends an hour refusing to kiss Louis after his cigarette. He pokes the hickeys he left every hour or so and always makes a claiming comment, calling Louis  _ mine  _ or  _ my love _ or-- Louis’ personal favorite--  _ boyfriend _ .

Louis doesn’t say “I love you” again and Harry doesn’t let on that he heard it.

They end the night building a pillowfort of couch cushions and Harry strings battery-powered fairy lights around the top; it’s something Louis’ always wanted to do but never found the time as a child.

Before he knows it, he’s fallen asleep again and waking up to waffles and fruit already prepared.

Domestic life has it’s appeals.

*

They stay in for a few days-- it’s just the two of them, the snack shelf, and the slowly depleting drug stock against the world.

And Louis tries to be okay with it; this is what he wanted, isn’t it?

He loves the home cooked meals and the playful redding up together and falling asleep on the sofa before calling it a night and heading to bed. He doesn’t know how he’ll ever live again without being force-fed kale smoothies and answering emails in the sweet silent company of Harry.

He feels  _ cared for _ for the first time in his life. It’s almost as scary as it is comforting.

Because Finn doesn’t comment when Louis asks for his third bottle of liquor and Mum doesn’t notice when Sunday dinner is his only meal of the week. His sisters are busy in worlds of their own and so is Harry, most of the time.

Harry notices when Louis has migraines. Harry notices when Louis loses weight. All of those things are lovely-- or they should be-- but Louis hates the feeling.

Harry notices when the beer he buys doesn’t last as long as he expected, and he gives Louis this little helpless look of disappointment every time he finds evidence in the rubbish or a few shots have been taken out of a bottle.

Maybe being ignored wasn’t so bad after all.

Louis was destined to be a side-character, but Harry thinks him the perfectly-flawed protagonist who’s destined to prove himself.

But his character arch doesn’t come. And poor Harry, still waiting for it, can only give Louis looks of pity in the meantime. 

*

“Fuckin hell, Louis,” Harry says one day, it can’t have been more than a couple of days later.

Louis turns around slowly, cheeks flushing as he prepares for a scolding. He wasn’t caught in the act of doing anything, but it’s obvious he upset Harry in some way-- and Harry’s quite hard to upset.

He just ran to the petrol station to buy more smokes for Louis-- as much as he hates the habit, he’s a caring boyfriend, and Louis let him even though he could go a few days without before he needed more. Louis couldn’t go himself, not able to drive in America and still littered with freshly marked-over hickeys on his neck, and he didn’t mind having the house to himself for a bit.

Harry continues; “I’m not fucking stupid.”

“What d’ya mean, darling?” Louis asks gently, not wanting to provoke the situation further.

“This.” Harry lifts up an empty bottle of raspberry Smirnoff in his left hand-- in his other hand, a generic plastic  _ “Thank You!”  _ bag.

“I-- I didn’t--”

“Stop talking,” Harry cuts him off. Louis listens, not wanting to make this worse for himself. “I don’t mind if you drink a bit, but you keep  _ lying  _ about it.”

“I haven’t lied about anything.”

“You think I don’t notice.” Louis isn’t sure if that’s directly a response to him or not. “That you always brush your teeth when you’ve drank. Or won’t kiss me.”

“That’s not true,” he defends, voice tiny and guilty.

“Prove it, then.” Harry throws the bag onto the floor somewhere, Louis doesn’t follow it after a few feet. “Kiss me.”

“I--.” He just swished with mouthwash in the bathroom.  _ Fuck _ . “I can’t.”

“Why can’t you, Lou?” Harry leans in close to his face, close enough to smell his breath. “Just tell me. Explain to me  _ why  _ this bottle is empty and I’ll drop it.”

Where there’d usually be sadness and pity, Harry looks angry and at his limit. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Harry picks up the empty bottle and walks into the kitchen, cold and upset. Louis needs to do something.

“Wait, baby, wait,” he calls out, scampering into the kitchen and following Harry. He catches him throwing the bottle into the rubbish bin; Harry doesn’t seem to notice when it hits the wall and cracks before falling in. 

Louis leans down and picks up the few pieces of glass and throws them in with the rest. He cut his palm but simply wraps his hand in the excess sleeve of his navy blue sweatshirt-- he doesn’t expect Harry to clean up another mess of his.

As he’s picking up the glass, Louis hears a door slam down the hallway-- Harry’s bedroom, he assumes. He sighs, giving himself a moment to cool down before talking to him.

In the hallway, the echos of his footsteps and breath are entirely dramatized, pumping Louis’ veins with adrenaline and regret. The creak of him opening the bedroom door is even more daunting.

“Harry,” Louis says, making out his boyfriend sitting on the edge of the bed with his eyes closed. “Can we talk about this?”  
He sits down next to him, leaving a few inches of space. Harry doesn’t look at him as he does.

“Do you want to admit anything, Louis? Or are we gonna keep doing this?” 

Louis takes a breath in, not really sure if there’s anything he could say to make this better for himself. Filling the silence, Harry continues.

“I’m patient, Lou. Very patient. I  _ know _ you have a problem. I  _ know  _ you’re struggling. I’m not asking you to be perfect--” he looks at Louis, eyes slightly teary-- “just stop fucking  _ lying  _ to me.”

“Nothing’s wrong, Harry. If it were I’d tell you, you have to trust me.” He gently cups Harry’s cheek with his cut hand, stroking sweetly as if that’s any help; neither man acknowledges the dried blood on his sleeve. His throat is closing up, caught on words he doesn’t even believe. “I’m not hiding anything from you, lovely.”

Harry laughs snarkily. “You know I don’t believe you, Lou.” Grabbing Louis’ free hand, he uses both of his own to fiddle with the other man’s fingers.

“I’m putting everything into this relationship. You have to believe that.”

Though he doesn’t say any reply, it’s the heaviest response he could give.

“You don’t believe me?” Louis pulls back. “You don’t believe that our relationship is the only thing I have.”

“It’s not that, exactly…”

“You don’t believe me when I’m putting a million times more into this than you. Okay. Brilliant; that’s bloody brilliant, Hazza.”  
“This isn’t about that.”

“Innit? What were you doing for months when you were hardly texting me? When you stayed in California when you could’ve taken a weekend to visit me? When you got drunk at the house of some guy I’ve never heard of, because you tell me fuck-all about your life, for the first time we were together in _months_?”  
“I was _working_ , Louis! I have a life, I have friends, I have a _job_. You can’t possibly get upset at me for that.”

“I’m not upset with you.” His sentence starts angrily but dissipates with thought. “Maybe we aren’t meant for each other. You have your life, your job that you love. And I’m just the lonely Prince who gets locked up in the tower nine months a year. We’re too different.”

When Harry replies he sounds annoyed. “It’s not that, Lou…”

“Isn’t it? I don’t have friends to go to, and I can’t be the focus of your world. I don’t have any passions, any hobbies. I drink to pass the time and it pisses you off. Let’s just quit while we’re ahead, call it off.”

Harry doesn’t respond immediately; they look at each other, basking in the tension, both of them at loss for words.

“Is that what you think Louis?”

He has to think for a moment if it is or not.

“I-- No, that’s not what I think. But maybe it’s true.”

Harry looks like he’s responding when Louis’ phone rings on the charger; they both look at it expectantly as Louis walks over to investigate. 

“Shit, it’s Lottie. I have to answer.” It’s a little past one at home, his heart’s already racing as he accepts the call. “Hello?”

“ _ Louis _ , you have to get home. Mum’s appendix burst, she’s in the hospital.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY FOR THE CLIFFHANGER AHHH!!! i low key hate this chapter but it's about to get good.
> 
> i'll try to update quicker this time
> 
> [tumblr](https://californiasjewel.tumblr.com)
> 
> [elle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavenlyfool)
> 
> btw i've been distracted from making new clichés because i've been busy helping elle with her fic-- read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23470366/chapters/56268217) :) <3

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr](https://californiasjewel.tumblr.com).
> 
> reblog the fic post, too, if you wish (please please please).
> 
> feedback?? literally comment ANYTHING and i'll be in love with you.


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